through the golden layers as they became transmuted from light to gold and gold to blood, and in the darkening heart of the descending orb it seemed to Leyenda that he read things, for he would make no move to leave his perch till darkness was full upon them. Then he would sit up and stretch and limp down and he would be her lover with only a glow of the sunset in his dark eyes.
This was the first of the things which Leyenda found disturbing. It was more than her vanity which protested at his finding so great an interest outside herself. She wondered what the sunset told him of the ruin; of the gods who had gone away. The place had been a temple, and things had happened there; even the broken basin covered with gourds had once been slaughter's abode. She pulled at her bracelet.
The moon came, and the bright nights. It shone upon the cliff as it might upon a high tower--they were more conscious of the altitude than by day. As it grew big Leyenda became restless and sometimes left Dal sleeping---he was feverish in the evenings, and slept heavily--- while she went out in the air. One night while she was walking with strange thoughts and plucking at her bracelet, which still could not be loosed, she had a fright. Looking down the long slope toward her eastern home, she thought she saw a moving shape in the moon-steeped grasses half a mile distant. Her marrow chilled. She tried to changer her terror to disbelief, to tell herself it was a mist, but then she saw it was [[underline]]looking[[end underline]] at her. Screams paralysed her throat, and she uttered no sound at all, but just stood there. In another moment it moved or flickered out of sight, and she ran gasping to Dal. Her brothers! Her brothers! How long before they would climb the slope?
Dal was asleep, lying with face averted on his cloak. The sight of him silenced her at the moment of calling out. What use to waken him? She would go back and watch until no doubt was left. This resolution surprised her--none the less she followed it out. She went some distance, and seated herself behind a bush with flickering leaves. From there every foot of the slope was visible--and naught seemed amiss. What had she seen? One of the night-flying birds? In a little she had convinced herself it was so. The giddying moonrays poured as upon a distant arena, which, no matter what it harboured, could not affect her. She laughed, and was pleased that she had let her lover sleep. By dawn the unstirring sea of mist had ebbed, and there was a faint cold which made her creep back to Dal's side. He looked at her through a dream and said nothing.
When the moon was absent, another thing occurred. She lay in the shelter they had contrived, only a few inches of slate to shut out the stars thickening over the unattainable land. The tide of her thoughts wandered, and a dream took shape, of the sort which forms in a mind that has slipped its leash. She appeared somehow to see the stars beyond the roof--white crowding fragments of unstable light. Their numbers and intensity were uncommon, but more than that, like boiling particles they pushed and opposed and seethed and scattered in visible motion. Not in their habitual pace moved these dancers in ether, but with new speeds and in new relationships. They seemed to describe vast patterns that ought to have taken whole lifetimes to execute.
And they lit the ruins, and seemed to congregate above the tumbled conical altar, more brilliantly than all the moons of the year could do, and since they moved, their light came constantly from new angels; where darkness had been now was a star, two stars, or twenty, shunting from prodigious facets their own and their brothers' flames. And in the moments she stared at them, the altar seemed to change. Cracks became fewer, the moss retreated, the runnels of the rain were filled, the patient erosion of the wind undone, and the work of the snowflake defeated. Unexplaned joys swelled in her as she perceived
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